Hero by R. A. Salvatore
I have oft noted that perfection of body is not possible, and that the pursuit of it, the journey, is the point more than the goal. In Kane, I have found the closest example of that elusive, unattainable perfection, more so than I believed possible.
And so I am honored to be in his presence, to be tutored by him.
I feel the ground more solidly beneath my feet now, and that is the clue. If this were real, if Kane’s advance was true as presented, then indeed I could envision myself following this path.
And so it is clear to me that my enemies have found a way to get me to lower my guard, that they have found a way to tease me with illusions that go to the fondest desires of the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.
And thus, in those moments when the ground seems most solid beneath my feet, when the preposterousness of my fears seem so much greater than the preposterousness of the reality that led me to those fears, then I must remind myself of that weakening guard and of the price that I will pay when at last I have become fully deceived into believing that this is all real.
Yes, this monastery is the ring of truth that I have ever longed to wear.
Yes, this Grandmaster of Flowers Kane is the epitome of my personal goals.
Yes, I would embrace this, all of it.
If I believed it.
But I do not.
—Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 19
When He Met His Match
MALCANTHET SAT IN THE QUEEN’S ROOM AND CONSIDERED HER situation carefully. She had garnered quite a bit of information from her shared time in this body with Concettina, enough to give her a cursory understanding in the ways of the Court of Helgabal and her own predicament—though she was hardly fearful—regarding the frustrated King Yarin.
She wanted more, though, and needed a spy.
The succubus queen casually tossed a log into the hearth. She raised her arm and turned it over and a ball of flame appeared, hovering above her uplifted palm. Malcanthet gave a soft blow and the flame flew down to the log, instantly igniting it.
Malcanthet nodded, determined to thoroughly consider her every move. She knew the dangers. Many of the demon lords had taken advantage of the weakened Faerzress to escape the bonds of the Abyss. Faerûn’s Underdark was thick with demons of all types, even the greatest of their kind.
“Including Graz’zt,” she whispered with trepidation, her voice smothered by the hiss of the burning wood, which was not yet seasoned.
Graz’zt was not fond of her, and her greatest ally, Demogorgon, had been destroyed in the entryway of Menzoberranzan before she could get to his side. Perhaps Malcanthet should have returned to the Abyss upon learning of that loss, but the promise of fun in her freedom here on the Material Plane had proven too great a lure.
And so she had hidden in the gem and allowed Lolth’s own minions to bring her out of the Underdark and to Faerûn’s surface. Here she could play, indeed, but she had to keep the noise of her presence limited, else the others would know.
Graz’zt would know.
Malcanthet had no intention of meeting that one here on the Material Plane!
She was about to call to Inchedeeko, had almost begun uttering the words, when Malcanthet realized that she was not alone. She didn’t turn her head, but she could envision the intruder anyway, tipped off by the echoes of the memories of Concettina.
Malcanthet stepped away from the hearth and turned, noting the painting of King Yarin that hung on the rear wall of the room. The left eye of that painting was different now . . it was a living eye.
Malcanthet only saw the painting for an instant, not wanting to stare and tip off the spy, but that was all she needed. She knew who was behind that wall, crouched in the secret passage.
She began to disrobe, slowly and seductively. And as she did, she sent her thoughts out to the hidden corridor, the whisper of her spell calling to Princess Acelya. Like a thin stream of smoke Malcanthet’s seductive whisper snaked into the woman, filling her with thoughts of the succubus, teasing her with promises, magically calling her to Malcanthet’s side.
A few moments later, Acelya walked through the queen’s door, where Malcanthet waited.
Charmed, the weakling human woman was no match for Malcanthet’s suggestions. When a disheveled Acelya stumbled back out of the room, Malcanthet was confident she had an obedient spy who would tell her everything she needed to know.
Now her work here could begin in earnest. She padded across the room on bare feet and tossed more logs into the hearth, watching the flames grow, letting her thoughts sink into them and fly to her home in the Abyss. Through the flames, she assembled her servants and issued her instructions.
Only one would come through that night, a tiny humanoid-shaped creature with spiky horns and bat wings, its green skin covered with dripping pustules. Malcanthet smiled. She thought Inchedeeko so ugly as to be cute, but she smiled because the little quasit had brought her the requested items.
She slipped her magical whip under the soft mattress of her bed, and considered her favorite toy of all, a large mirror framed in copper, long turned green, and shaped into the grotesque and leering face of a demon, its exaggerated mouth opened wide, the mouth itself serving as the reflective surface. It had been given to her by an arch-lich, on the promise that she would occasionally return it, full of trapped souls, to the lich’s tomb, where it could feed on the prisoners—and of course he would then give her another, empty mirror so that she could continue her games.
She hung the mirror next to the painting of King Yarin, then covered it with one of Concettina’s many cloaks and added a ward of lightning to sting any who might try to remove that cloak.
It would not be wise to leave such a malignant device open to prying eyes.
If too many were sucked into its extradimensional prison cells, who knew what the mirror might vomit back out?
“WE’LL HAVE TO be long gone an’ not lookin’ back,” Ivan said. “They’re goin’ to know ’twas yerselfs, both o’ ye, and yer House, or morada, or whate’er ye’re calling the durned thing …”
“Hee hee hee,” said Pikel, slowing Ivan only a bit.
“Topo … err, Topolungo, or whate’er!” Ivan finished, and Pikel hee hee hee’d again.
“We intend to be long gone with Concettina before King Yarin even knows she’s not in her room,” Regis answered. “Long is the reach of Donnola Topolino, I assure you.”
“And I ain’t for trustin’ Yarin’s spies,” Ivan answered, “so me an’ me brother’ll be with ye.”
“Me brudder!” Pikel chimed in.
That not-subtle warning didn’t bother Regis. He was thrilled at the prospect of having the Bouldershoulder brothers beside him once more, though he was also thinking that the sooner he got them on a boat to the west and on the road to meet up with Bruenor and the others, the better for everyone. Morada Topolino survived by maintaining a low profile, after all, and should he allow the Bouldershoulder brothers to remain with the Topolino gang, it wouldn’t be long before jests and whispers about Pikel became common throughout Aglarond.
“They’ll be expecting us along the south road,” Regis said. “Perhaps we should head north instead.”
Ivan shook his head. “Not much north. Farms and spies. Could go west to the mountains and run their foothills south into Impiltur, but that’s a long and hard road, don’t ye doubt.”
“So what do you counsel?” asked Wulfgar.
“Eh, just go south and go fast,” Ivan decided. “We can get some miles behind us, and me brother’s a good one for hidin’ folks.”
“Me brudder!” Pikel shouted with alarming volume, drawing a chorus of “shh!” from the other three.
“Ooo,” said the green-bearded dwarf.
“Ye get yerself on out into the garden,” Ivan told his brother. “We’re all to be needin’ a fine meal afore we start our run, eh?” He turned to the others and added, for Pikel’s benefit, clearly, “None’s makin’ a finer meal than me brother.”
NONE OF THE conspirators understood that their volume didn’t really matter, since a little demon spy was hearing every word anyway, and so it was no coincidence when Queen Concettina showed up to visit with Pikel out in the garden just a short while later.
“You know them?” she said to the dwarf’s beaming smile, which disappeared almost immediately.
“The halfling and barbarian from Aglarond,” Malcanthet explained. “They are friends of yours.”
“Umm …”
“Come to help you rescue me and steal me away to safety,” the succubus added. She put on a most disarming and grateful smile, one that nearly made Pikel swoon, so powerful was the magical charm behind it.
“Ooo,” he admitted.
The queen bent low and whispered so that only Pikel could hear. “We cannot run. King Yarin is wary and he is no fool. He knows that the halfling has come for me.”
“Ooo.” The word was the same, but the tone evoked a very different meaning, this time one of concern.
“Yes, ooo,” the queen replied. “I cannot run away to Aglarond, dear dwarf. If I do, it will mean war, and I will not start a war.”
“Uh uh,” Pikel agreed.
“But I really don’t want a headless statue to be my legacy, either,” the queen said with a wail. “Oh, Pikel, you must help me!”
“Oo oi!”
“Will you help me?”
Pikel nodded so forcefully that he nearly threw himself over backward in the process.
“The guards at my door are lazy,” she said. “They sleep all the time. Send me the big man this night.”
Pikel’s eyes widened and he gave a nervous “Hee hee hee.”
“Yes, I know it is naughty, but I have no choice,” Concettina replied. “I will not run and start a war, and likely get you all killed in the attempt. But I must do something. So bring him to me, and I will give the king what he most wants, and perhaps we can all know peace. Will you do that, Pikel? Will you tell your brother?”
“Me brudder!”
Had he been thinking more clearly, it might have occurred to Pikel that Queen Concettina didn’t know that he and Ivan were brothers, or that there was no way she should have suspected their little plot so clearly and so quickly. But there was something about the woman’s smile that didn’t let any of that seep into the green-bearded dwarf’s mind, and so he bounded back to his little cottage and the others to tell them that plans had changed.
“BE QUICK AN’ be quiet,” Ivan called down the small spiral staircase. It had taken three days, but finally the dwarf had been assigned as a nighttime sentry for Queen Concettina’s room, and so the moment was upon them.
“He’s being stubborn,” Regis called up as quietly as he could manage.
Ivan rambled down the stairs to find the halfling standing exasperated, hands on hips, with a sour looking Wulfgar leaning up against the wall of the stairwell.
“I cannot agree to this,” Wulfgar said. “This is not why I came to Damara.”
“Lady Donnola …”
“Did not tell me this part of the plan,” Wulfgar insisted.
“We came to save the queen, and so now we’re saving the queen,” Regis replied, but Wulfgar’s expression did not soften—quite the opposite.
“You are asking me to father a child and then abandon it,” the barbarian said.
“You have spent the last two years in the beds of any woman who would have you!” Regis argued, and Ivan gasped at the volume.
“Shh!” the dwarf scolded. “We’re in the king’s own home, ye dolt!”
The frustrated halfling nodded.
“That was play, but this is real,” Wulfgar said. He believed that he had not been irresponsible, nor had he ever lied to the women he had known in this second life. And yes, to him it had been play, and with proper precautions, particularly after he had met Penelope Harpell, who had shown him more than a few tricks and common concoctions to prevent conception.
“Play that might have …” the halfling pressed.
“Enough!’ Wulfgar said. “Do not tell me how to live my life, my friend. I have taken great care, and with no illusions. But in this, you ask me to purposely sire a child, and one I’ll not ever know.”
Regis and Ivan exchanged puzzled glances at the barbarian’s steadfast stance, and finally Regis remembered a not-unimportant detail.
“Colson,” he said. “You are reminded of Colson.” He turned to Ivan. “Wulfgar once had a child, not his own, but one caught in similar circumstance …”
“Enough,” Wulfgar said again, and indeed, he was thinking very much of Colson, the dear young girl he had returned to her mother when he had left the friends in Mithral Hall in his previous life, so many decades before. He had never seen Colson again after that, and had no idea of what had happened to her. Certainly, her future had looked secure enough when Wulfgar had returned her to Meralda in the mountain town of Auckney, but still, the mystery from that point forward had chased the barbarian back to the tundra and had filled many of his nights with anxiety—and Colson wasn’t even his own daughter!
“You know nothing of it,” Wulfgar went on. “What you are asking of me is …”
“The only way, boy,” Ivan interrupted, stepping forward and seeming quite sympathetic. “I’m wishin’ it could be otherwise, but ye heared what the queen telled me brother. We can’no steal the queen away without provokin’ a war, and sure but that’s not what ye’re wantin’! Bah, but in that case, when the fields are bloodied, how many won’t be knowing their kids no more?”
“This way is not fair to the queen,” Wulfgar tried to argue, desperate to find another direction.
“Was her own idea,” said Ivan. “And who can be blamin’ her? She’s to get herself with child or she’s to be without her head. There’s nothing we can do about that, boy. Well, nothing else besides this. Ye can’no fight King Yarin and ye can’no run, for he’d catch ye, catch us all. And if he didn’t, he’d send his army against Aglarond, and that’d be a formidable fight, don’t ye doubt. So go on now up the stairs. She’s waitin’ for ye. Ye’ll save the lady’s life, and she’s a good lady and worth savin’!”
Wulfgar glanced down at Regis, and the halfling nodded.
“And yer boy’ll be King o’ Damara,” Ivan went on. “Or yer girl, Queen o’ Damara, and with a Ma who’s loving and kind. And ye’ll help us all stop a war. And the king’s an old man. Nothing stopping yerself from coming back once he’s gone to face his crimes.”
Wulfgar rubbed his face, trying very hard to justify this entire situation. He didn’t want a war and he certainly didn’t want the poor woman executed. He thought of her, then, of the pretty young woman he had seen at court. He couldn’t imagine her with the wretched and ugly old King Yarin of her own accord, and it was that notion, that her marriage had surely been arranged and for reasons other than love, that finally made him nod in agreement and start up the stairs.
A long while later, Ivan opened the concealed side door of the palace and peeked out into the darkened garden area. Seeing no one around, he motioned for Regis and Wulfgar to slip away into the night, back to the visitor’s cottage.
A disheveled Wulfgar staggered out of the palace, hardly able to walk, and shaking his head in confusion with every step, which gave the dwarf and the halfling more than a few chuckles.
“A good thing you didn’t take the offer of Jarlaxle’s dragon friend,” Regis giggled when they were safely away. “I do believe she would have killed you.”
Regis grinned up at him, but he didn’t see it.
CHAPTER 20
The Undisciplined
HE DIDN’T HAVE HIS SCIMITARS. HE DIDN’T HAVE HIS BOW. HIS magical anklets and armor, too, were back in his private chamber, far from the training room.
His opponen
Only speed and skill and the balance of a drow warrior kept Drizzt upright as Master Afafrenfere pressed the attack, sliding in close and tearing off a series of punches, chops, elbows, knees, and high kicks.
Drizzt blocked a barrage of punches, drove a forearm smash up high, and slammed his knee into Afafrenfere’s hip. But the monk spun away too quickly to suffer any damage from the blow, and used that spin to come around with a leg sweep.
Drizzt tucked his legs up under him, the monk’s attack sliding beneath. Drizzt kept his legs tucked, falling low to the ground as Afafrenfere set his sweeping leg. He transferred the momentum across his body to send his other leg snapping up high—too high for the falling Drizzt, who hit the ground but quickly popped back up.
Now Drizzt pressed the attack with a dozen shortened but powerful jabs and a snap kick, none of which got through Afafrenfere’s perfectly angled blocks and twists.
Still, the ability to turn back the advantage and regain the initiative in unarmed combat against a Master of the South Wind had the spectators in the balcony above the training room nodding in approval.
The opponents each kicked out, their legs connecting shin to shin between them. Drizzt got the worst of that exchange, and felt unsteady in the knee as he brought his foot back to the ground beneath him. He tried to mask it by coming forward fiercely, but he winced with the first step. That took him a bit off to the side, his attempted left hook coming in too wide.